My life

It was the middle of 2006.

I was 40 years old, and the last two years had been a brutal fight for survival—homeless, betrayed, falsely accused, and now forever marked as a criminal. Although my status as a homeless person was on the verge of changing, everything else remained a bleak constant.

The Division of Vocational Rehabilitation (VR) had funded my certification in Web Design. This was before Ana's vicious attack… before I was thrown into jail… before I was cornered into accepting a plea deal. I was already crushed, having lost my career, my home, my clinical license, and so I numbly went along with the suggestion we stumbled upon together. I admit I was something of a geek, with a faint curiosity about technology.

Yet, I had no desire to work in that field. That's why I used my engineering degree as a stepping stone to earn a graduate degree, a Master of Social Work. Web design and development felt like a tedious, soul-crushing task of writing code for a lifeless machine. I was too shattered by the harrowing weight of seven torturous months in jail to grasp these realities then.

I had moved forward like a docile child, surrendering my clinical license and following their suggestions. Now, with an indelible stain on my record, a violent crime etched into eternity, I wrestled with the grim reality that no one would ever trust me to work in a helping profession… in a role where trust is essential.

The most agonizing part is that the crime I was wrongfully convicted of can never be erased or expunged—not ever.

I thought you could trust me, no matter who you were. Yet, Ana had spun an entirely different tale, and the detectives bought into her fabrications completely. My life seemed split into two opposing forces—truth and reality. The truth was the essence of who I truly was and had always been. Reality, however, was a social construct, woven from tales told by others. None of the stories about me were penned by anyone who genuinely knew me.

Let's step back a moment. After I was released from jail, I found myself with a web design certificate but nowhere to call home in Chapel Hill. Eric, my VR counselor from Durham, continued to support me. He was still there, alongside a job coach, trying to guide me through the tricky terrain of job applications, where every form demanded whether I had a criminal record. Each application was a harsh reminder, a trigger I never anticipated. I never thought it would end up being a consideration I’d have to face. Eric's advice seemed to imply I should acknowledge guilt while pleading for a second chance. Perhaps he meant well. Maybe he thought it was unrealistic for me to expect every employer to disregard my recent conviction. Yet, I felt torn; I couldn't bring myself to follow his guidance.

I couldn’t do it.

I had already lost so much—my freedom, my reputation, my career, my dignity—but I clung desperately to the truth. Eric's advice mirrored the beliefs of many about the justice system, where pleading guilty equates to committing a crime. However, the plea deal and my courtroom responses had been arranged without my input, as if my lawyer had made all the decisions for me, as you might recall from my earlier account of these events.

It was a tangled mess, and I was caught in the middle, struggling to reconcile the truth I held onto with the reality imposed upon me.

Guilt had never been made concrete and real when I seemed to plead guilty in front of the judge. I literally lacked the ability to summon up air to vocalize my truth.

VR had determined previously, with my input, that a traditional job would be difficult for me. A home-based business was the plan. But what good was a home-based business when you had no home?

Initially, the debate centered on whether VR should purchase equipment for use on Holloway Street in Durham. This particular area had garnered a notorious reputation, known far and wide as a drug-infested, crime-ridden section of town. Eric, though not one to articulate every detail of what he knew about the neighborhood, was acutely aware of its infamy. He didn't need to witness the discarded needles littering the streets or be approached by hookers desperate for their next fix. Nor did he need to experience the fear of being mugged or threatened on Holloway Street firsthand to understand its perilous nature.

Given the well-known facts about Holloway Street, I always wondered why the detectives weren't more suspicious of Ana's story about being there merely to collect rent. The case might have been concluded, but I couldn't help but marvel at the detectives' apparent naivety as they listened to Ana's account.

During the brief period between the plea deal and securing stable housing, I was guided by a job coach and Eric at VR to find any form of employment. However, this situation was on the brink of transformation.

A Chance at Stability

My heart had once blazed with an unquenchable fury for social justice. That was still a part of me even as I found myself ensnared in the very existence I sought to obliterate for millions across the United States. Homelessness and poverty clawed like savage beasts that were unleashed by the indifference of my own family, and all of this was demanding immediate action. I had sought refuge at the IFC (Interfaith Council for Social Services) shelter in Chapel Hil staying at their homeless shelter.

I also participated in meetings to address homelessness. The federal government doled out block grants to the state, and communities gathered putting their heads together to try to do what they could with the limited funds from the federal government.

I attended these gatherings not as the mental health professional and clinical social worker I once was and would have been, but as a homeless individual, stripped bare of the life I had meticulously planned. Since I was not the social worker I had envisioned that I would be at this time in my life, I imagined that I was limited in how much I could contribute. Hopefully my own story would help inspire others to look for solutions.

It was in this time of transformation that I met Vanessa, a formidable representative from the local mental health center. She held a high-ranking position at the agency, a beacon amid the chaos. The early 2000s were a time of violent upheaval in mental health services, with agencies where I had once worked being reduced to mere administrative skeletons. The government heralded this as efficiency.

The social worker within me screamed in silent agony, tormented by the countless people abandoned as society's outcasts. People society had discarded, branded as if they deserved their plight. Patients discharged from psychiatric hospitals were hurled into communities woefully unprepared to support them, with funding grotesquely inadequate to meet the surging tide of needs. I was ensnared in a maelstrom, torn between the seething passion that had driven me to earn my Master of Social Work degree and the visceral urgency to simply survive in a barren, hope-starved reality.

That passion within me was well below the surface. I had been in the habit of dissociating from those things that would cause me pain - such as the realization that I might never work in my field because of the false criminal conviction. My passion for social justice, the life-long drive to make the world a better place, this existed in an exhiled and wounded part of myself. My dissociation was in the form of emotional and psychological numbing - a form of detachment.

And then Vanessa did something no one else had dared—she extended a hand to help! She connected me to a housing program called Shelter Plus Care—a lifeline for those who had been homeless for at least two years and bore a disability diagnosis. Normally, people languished for years waiting for a Section 8 voucher. I had been on Section 8 and had almost abandoned hope of receiving a voucher. At this point in my life, 2 or 3 years felt like an eternity. I could only focus on surviving each relentless day.

Vanessa’s role in my life at this time felt like a strange twist of fate. On one hand, it seemed she could see right through me, recognizing that I wasn't meant for a life on the streets. My vulnerability was obvious to her, and while she couldn't undo the unjust circumstances that had brought me here, she introduced me to a program that sounded promising—Shelter Plus Care. The name suggested I might receive not only housing but also the treatment I desperately needed.

Sure enough, just weeks after that frustrating plea deal, I found myself approved for Shelter Plus Care and a place in Carrboro, an area nearly part of Chapel Hill. Relief washed over me, knowing that at least one person in a position of influence had noticed my struggle and cared enough to help. But even with this glimmer of hope, I couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty. I knew I needed more than a home.

What hope was there when I had lost my reputation. My name was never cleared. The actual perpetrator had gotten away with everything.

I was understandably scared of something going wrong even with my housing situation. I had a job coach, as I mentioned, and his name was Harold. We rode out to see the place. I said, “I just got convicted of this crime, do you think that is going to affect my chances of getting into this situation?”

Harold said that if he was me, he would “just not mention it. Don’t let anything stop this from happening.”

I felt it was risky and scary. I was afraid to get my hopes up and then to have this taken away from me. Yet, I wasn’t eager to volunteer information about the lies and the false conviction. Did Vanessa know. Probably not. But then again, maybe she did.

Shelter Plus Care seemed to offer a situation where not only was housing provided but there was the care component seemed to imply that the program had additional resources for one to receive treatment for one’s disability - be it physical or a mental illness. The care component was not actually a part of the program. The program didn’t include a grant to fund treatment services. They didn’t create any form of treatment or rehabilitation for the participants in the program. Maybe the original plan had that in mind but the result was something like an expedited form of approval for Section 8 housing.

So, I moved into an unfurnished apartment with very little income. I was able to work at Measurement Inc. again. I was scoring standardized test from students in schools across the US. We were hired as contract employees and for as long as the contract lasted. Often one contract lead directly to the next project without hardly any interruption.

My parents were still a part of my life despite their betrayal when I was in jail. They brought a table with a couple of chairs, along with a few other items.

Declared Disabled by the Federal Government

Cornered and desperate, I found myself thrust into the grueling process of applying for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI), a journey that had begun even before Ana's brutal assault. The relentless trauma of repeated victimization in Durham, followed by an unjust imprisonment after being preyed upon, shattered me beyond recognition, leaving scars so profound they defied words. The torment of disbelief cut deeper than any knife, amplifying the oppressive shadow that haunted every moment of my existence.

I enlisted the aid of a disability lawyer, acutely aware of the systemic cruelty where initial claims were routinely tossed aside—not out of skepticism about one's disability, but as a perverse test of stamina. Even the most glaringly evident cases were rejected, not just once, but twice, as if enduring this torment was an initiation ritual.

Lawyers thrived on this vicious cycle, claiming 30% of the backpay once the case was finally approved. It was logical—they couldn't be expected to work for free. Yet, the entire ordeal felt like a grotesque performance. If one could withstand the excruciating waiting game, after two soul-crushing denials, the case would eventually reach a judge, who would finally grant approval. Unlike the evasive Section 8 vouchers, limited in number, disability approvals had no cap. But the path to that approval was a battlefield of endless struggles and waiting, a brutal testament to sheer persistence.

I find myself torn, not wanting to dive into a rabbit hole or veer off-topic, yet feeling compelled to address the past. Before the state held me hostage, my friends—those who initially supported me and offered me housing when I first arrived in Durham—believed I didn't deserve disability benefits. This belief was based on our understanding of what I had endured at the time. They themselves were battling for these meager government allowances despite their own harrowing experiences. Both of my roommates suffered from dissociative identity disorder (DID), which was believed to have stemmed from horrific crimes, torture, and abuse in their early years of life.

My application process began in 2004, prior to the traumatic events and unjust imprisonment, and was backdated to 2003. Fast forward to July 2006, I found myself entering a courtroom alongside my disability attorney, facing a judge. I walked out, conflicted, yet knowing I had been approved! Having worked tirelessly since I was 16, by the year 2000, I was earning a six-figure salary—a stark contrast to the $30k salary I had when I graduated from my master's program in 1996. Perhaps my income with an MSW and some clinical training was even higher. In 2025, such roles would easily command $70k, and private practice in North Carolina could reach $200k, not just $100k.

The crux of my internal struggle lies in the fact that I had led a normal life, with significant earnings to show for it, up to a certain point. One might assume that someone retiring or transitioning to SSDI could live comfortably. Yet, the reality is they evaluate the entirety of a person's earnings history. Having done little work after age 34, my monthly benefits would barely keep me above the poverty line. It wasn't as dire as SSI—Social Security Insurance—which is entirely needs-based and reflects true poverty, but my monthly checks would hover just above that threshold. This reality leaves me deeply conflicted, caught between the life I once led and the limitations I now face.

My disability lawyer, distinct from the criminal lawyer who had pressured me into accepting a plea deal, presented my case focusing on Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. However, this approach ignored the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that has defined my condition going all the way back to 2003 or earlier and up to the present day in 2025. At the time, I was relieved to be approved. Yet a nagging feeling told me something was amiss.

In the interest of expediency, he omitted the most significant truth—I wasn't just depressed; I was deeply traumatized. Back then, it never crossed my mind, nor did anyone suggest, that I could reopen the criminal case and challenge the plea deal. In hindsight, doing so right after the plea deal disaster would have carried far more weight. The looming specter of "statutes of limitations" has haunted me for nearly two decades—it’s now 2025, and my friend Sarah still clings to the notion of justice, envisioning a new court proceeding nineteen years after the plea deal in 2006. There are rational, albeit not legal, remedies to this situation. Being declared disabled as far back as 2003 should have nullified the plea deal since there was a government-recognized reason why I couldn't have reasonably entered into it.

Ironic, isn't it? The criminal lawyer I had trusted became a villain in my story due to the threats and pressure he exerted over the plea deal. In hindsight, I am torn, wondering if I should have approached my disability lawyer to see if overturning the recent plea deal was possible based on the circumstances I described. During the plea deal, the judge inquired if any mental health conditions could compromise my ability to agree.

My lawyer must have signaled or somehow prepared me to deny any such conditions, despite my lack of awareness. What I said wasn’t a lie, but rather a reflection of my ignorance. Yet, that ignorance now leaves me questioning every decision made in those fraught moments.

I would continue to question whether there was any way to overturn the plea deal.

I could have called the prosecutor as a witness if any lawyer had been there on my side during this time. Or if I had a family and not the illusion of a family that cared things might have been different. A real family would have cared enough to help me navigate these challenges.

I had been victimized multiple times—first by Ana, then by the police, then by the courts, and finally by a world that refused to believe me.

PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) would be added to my medical records later, but by then, the damage was done.

The federal government ruled that I was 100% disabled.

100% unable to work.
100% discarded by society.

The financial payout came in (the backpay for every month and year since 2003 - around $30,000 - a lump sum for the years I had already suffered. That was just my share. My lawyer would have gotten about $10k. I didn’t begrudge him that payment. After that, I would receive a monthly check which was slightly above the federal poverty level.

This lump sum payment was more than I would ever see again in my life. More than even the share of the inheritance from my mother’s death in the 2020s which would help me get a car for the first time in over two decades.

It was survival money, not a future.

No amount of money could undo what had happened.

A Life I Never Imagined

I possessed not one but two prestigious college degrees. That meant NOTHING.

I had meticulously crafted a life, a thriving career, a profound purpose—only to witness it all obliterated in the blink of an eye. That meant NOTHING. The world, a twisted version of reality, demanded I simply accept it. Swallow it whole and let it work for me. Accept it!

Abandon your hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Here's a paltry $30k, now deal with it! A pathetic farewell token from the US. This is the pinnacle of their generosity towards its citizens! It declared, "Here's $30k, and here’s a home - a parting gift." This is just my reconstruction of events. No apologies were offered. No acknowledgment of mistakes made. Instead, it felt as though reality, woven from deceitful narratives, painted me as a criminal, yet I was still owed something. Yes, reality, built on a foundation of lies, painted me as a violent figure when, in truth, I was as gentle as a butterfly landing softly on your arm in a serene meadow.

To be clear the disability matter did not examine the factors that had caused me to be disabled. No connection was made between the criminal matter and this disability claim. This fact, that the matters were unrelated, explained why there would be no apologies and no admission that mistakes were made.

The fact that I had been suicidal and spent time on a psychiatric ward helped my disability case on the grounds that Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder were threatening my ability to survive but nothing was done to connect the depression and anxiety to the trauma I had experienced.

In this twisted reality, truth held no weight. Here, the innocent were imprisoned while the violent were shielded! I would relay this statement to my therapist over a decade later, finally confronting my seething anger.

I never envisioned a future where I'd be branded a criminal. Where I'd be labeled as disabled. Where I'd be condemned to live shackled by a lie I could never erase.

A roof over my head was granted, but I remained ensnared.

Still haunted by ghosts that would follow me forever.

Still fettered to a past I never chose or deserved.

I was forced to look for and find any way to cope and to live. But despite having a home, despite receiving a check monthly, despite the illusion of stability, the brutal truth persisted:

I had already lost everything that ever held meaning.

And I had no clue how to reclaim it.

Despair weighed upon me as I wandered the dark Durham night. The shelter was full, so I tried to sleep on the grounds of Duke West Campus. No signs warned against trespassing. I didn’t feel comfortable so I left and taking a shortcut I scaled a 4-foot rock wall, unaware of doing anything wrong.

Then, as if summoned by fate, a police car appeared.

A block down the road, its lights flickered in the night. The car slowed, then stopped. My stomach clenched as the officer stepped out, approaching me with a cold authority.

“License."

The request made no sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Why were they stopping me?

And then, those dreaded words. Words that had already shattered my life once before.

"Warrant for your arrest."

Time collapsed. My thoughts spiraled. A warrant? For what?

Then came the explanation—something about using someone’s credit card without permission.

I couldn’t breathe.

A credit card?

Panic surged through me. How? I hadn’t even had the chance to meet anyone with a credit card since my release from jail. How could I have committed a felony without even knowing it?

I barely had time to process the accusation before cold metal closed around my wrists. Handcuffs. Again.

As they led me away, my mind raced to make sense of the impossible.

How the hell did this happen?

A Rabbit Hole of Betrayal

To understand this new nightmare, we have to go back—back to a time before Ana, before jail, before my life unraveled.

I had once been part of therapy groups in Durham, trying to build a community, trying to heal. That’s where I met Kathy.

She knew I had worked with people diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—once called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)—a condition made infamous by movies like Sybil. It was rare, misunderstood, and yet, here it was, again, threading itself into my story.

Before my time on Holloway Street, before the assault that would alter my life, I had briefly lived in a spare room offered by a friend, Elaine. During that time, Kathy and I became intimate.

Then, one night, everything changed.

In an instant, she transformed—her voice, her body language—childlike.

It was as if I was suddenly in the presence of a child in an adult’s body.

I freaked out. I pulled away and got dressed immediately.

It didn’t matter that she was an adult. It felt like I was with a child.

Kathy soon returned to her boyfriend and Elaine wanted to live alone. I moved into the home of Kathy and her boyfriend —sleeping in the same room as her son, on the bottom bunk. But our relationship had become twisted, toxic.

She demanded my attention, needed me to play the role of therapist. I had already explained how inappropriate that would be after what had happened and I wasn’t licensed and practicing at that point.

Some of her other personalities were angry at me.

Some were obsessed with me.

Some were jealous—especially when I spent time with my girlfriend, Shonda.

The situation was untenable.

And then came Christmas.

The Credit Card That Would Ruin Me

December 2003—less than a year before Ana’s attack.

Kathy wanted to give me a gift.

She offered to pay for my website domain renewal—the same poetry website I had started with Lynn back in 1995.

The life I had shared with Lynn felt so close, and yet, like an entirely different lifetime.

We sat together as she entered her credit card details into my GoDaddy account. It was her choice.

Neither of us thought much about the card being saved on file.

At the time, it meant nothing. But that decision—the smallest, most mundane act—would later become my undoing.

A Dangerous Shift

Tensions escalated.

Kathy became more unpredictable, more hostile.

One night, things turned dangerous.

I felt threatened—physically and sexually.

I ran.

Outside, hands shaking, I called Shonda. She offered me a place to stay, a bed in the back of her family’s store.

Then, I called the police.

The authorities came. They didn’t arrest Kathy, but the report was on record—a crime of a sexual nature, with me as the victim.

I should have seen the warning signs then. But I didn’t.

And now, here I was—being arrested. Because of her.

The Forgotten Charge

Fast-forward to 2005, after Ana, after my release from jail.

I had forgotten about the GoDaddy domain.

My cards on file had no funds, so Kathy’s was automatically charged.

Instead of asking for her card to be removed, instead of seeing this for what it was—a mistake—she pressed charges.

The charge? Felony credit card fraud.

The amount? $15.

Fifteen dollars.

And I was back in a cell.

Trapped in the System Again

This time, I spent a month in jail, mostly in protective custody.

The same lawyer—the one handling my pending trial—was assigned to this nonsense case.

"I’ll enter a plea to misdemeanor larceny," he told me when he got around to contacting me at all, after I had been there almost a month!

"You’ll be released right away. No court appearance necessary."

I should have been furious but I was in such a state of shock during this period of time. I was detached from feelings and living life as if in a bad dream.

Misdemeanor larceny? Over a clerical error?

A System That Doesn't Care

I was too numb and detached to feel the anger that I feel as I write this almost 20 years later.

I was too beaten down, too traumatized to feel the full weight of my indignation.

But looking back?

This shouldn’t have happened.

A competent lawyer—one who actually cared—would have had this dismissed immediately. Instead, my public defender took the path of least resistance, pushing me through a legal system that wasn’t about justice, only efficiency.

I just wanted out.

So, I did not protest when he told me what he was going to do. As soon as I was free, I left Durham—straight for Chapel Hill.

Because even in homelessness, I had learned: some places were safer than others and Chapel Hill was safer.

I was able to find an intimate relationship with a woman again. I got married in Ankara, Turkey to Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi or Elee, as I call her.  

Elee had been submitting poetry to the poetry magazine that I was publishing with Jean Arthur Jones called Word Salad Poetry Magazine. I, at one point, asked her "would you ever marry someone like me?"  

I had thought she was very beautiful. We began talking on the phone and chatting with video chat across distances that separate us. She was in Iran.  

It would not be honorable for her to come to America without a commitment toward marriage first.  

It might seem like a strange way to get married for Americans. We date people and get engaged, then have a period of engagement, and then get married. Elee and I only knew each other virtually when we made the decision to meet in Ankara and to get married.  

Iran has an embassy in Turkey. I had to tell them that I was going to be a Muslim for Iran to allow the marriage to be recognized. That just meant that I had to say something.  

Ankara was very nice. The Mosque there is very beautiful. The food was amazing. The people could tell that I was an American. I walked outside the hotel and they would speak to me in English about the food that they wanted me to try in their restaurants.  

Then we had to wait almost two years for her to get a visa to come to America to live. She even went back to finish her education in medicine. Elee had been training to be a doctor. She had completed that training.  

I hope Elee can help me to reach my goals again, and to help others who will benefit from my services in the human services and psychiatric field.  

Elee and I got separated in 2018. We weren’t communicating well. We both thought the other one didn’t want to listen to them. We fought all the time. I kept trying to get her to go for counseling or work on the problems in our relationship. I was afraid to lose her and wanted to work on our relationship. She seemed uninterested.

We just are not meant to be married.

So, we are in the process of getting divorced. 

We are friends though. So, it's complicated. She is there for me when I need her. She paid for me to get into Epcot Center this past December of 2020. It was such a special and memorable event. We also went to Daytona Beach and then to Cocoa Beach. 

Getting into Epcot center is so expensive now. It costs $125 per person! Elee is not rich at all. We had to pay another $25 to park there. Then she paid for food that day. When you buy food inside the park, it is very expensive. It's like $5 for a small candy bar. The most affordable place we could find for lunch cost about $40.  

The cost of renting the car for five days with insurance and coverage for the tolls was almost $200. Yes, I paid for some of this but it would not have been possible for the day at Epcot had Elee not paid for that day. She also took me out for a crab or lobster dinner overlooking the beach at Cocoa Beach.

Dear reader: This book is a true story of the life I have known. I am writing to you to share this story in the hopes that we can make sense of things. I welcome your response and feedback on the story you have read.  

How do we make sense of suffering like this? Or injustice? 

I would wonder every year since that plea deal that had been threatened into taking, how I could still get justice. I haven’t stopped wanting that. Ana and Jimmy should pay for what they did to me. And no amount would be enough!

I keep wondering, how can I prove my innocence and Ana’s guilt (or Ana and Jimmy’s guilt? Clearly, they had a well-contrived plan. 

If you are wondering why, I would even consider a plea deal, consider the fact when I was sitting covered in blood, knowing that my attacker didn’t have a scratch on her, that didn’t matter at all!

The sense that I could not get justice or do anything made me become suicidal in December of 2019. 

My memories of the good times with Elee are complicated by the fact that we separated the way we did in 2018. 

Anyway, I was told by a law firm that no lawyer or attorney could possibly help me. They said there were no options. I cannot overturn the conviction, appeal it. I cannot get it expunged. I cannot sue to make the case in a different court.

Since everything that makes life meaningful and which brings joy to me is social in nature and is defined by connections and relationships, it seemed like no hope existed for me ever. This would follow me forever. 

You know how I like kids. Who would let a guy adopt children if he has been convicted of a violent crime?

Even volunteer opportunities seemed out of reach. That’s what I was thinking. 

I am shy so I fear rejection and now with lies out there, I have reasons for my fears of rejection. I had tried to go on a date once and it seemed like she found out something about me online and didn’t show up.

I suppose getting this book out there and telling the world who I really am is my way of changing things. 

It’s ironic, John Freifeld died and that is why I cannot sue him for what he put up on the web about me. The lies. 

Those lies show up in a Google search. 

I felt things were hopeless for me in every avenue and area of my life – everything that makes life meaningful and happy for me. 

So, that’s why I started taking those pills and drinking back in mid-December of 2019. I wanted to end my existence. 

Then I met some people and realized that there are warm, caring, and compassionate people in the world with empathy. People I met in the hospital, other patients.

The year 2020 was one of the best in many years for me, despite a pandemic.

So, relationships, friendships, and more will connect me with life.

I will continue to pursue getting my clinical license in social work again. I will continue to pursue employment in the field. Because I learned that when people do get to know me, they know my character, my goodness, my compassion, and my empathy toward others.

What can you do? Protest injustice. Stand up for the weak and oppressed!  Do not accept the status quo when it is wrong. Do not accept ideas like "that's just the way it is." It doesn't have to be that way. Think about how things might be very hurtful to someone. Offer that person comfort, compassion, and empathy. Listen with understanding. Offer a shoulder to cry upon.

I was considered by the government to be disabled during the period that included 2004-2006. So, I should not have been able to enter into a plea deal. 

Help me fight to get justice. 

I have so much to offer the world as you can imagine by now. 

So, my request is not just about me but the people whose lives I will touch in such positive ways.

Justice for me is doing those things that I used to do. And I will continue to advocate for the vulnerable. You can do that too.  

Comfort the sick and injured. Fight for justice. Never accept injustice. Never believe the lies that "nothing can be done" or "that's just the way it is." Demand change!  

Listen, listen, listen with a warm and compassionate heart. Find out how you can help. What does the person need? Just ask and then listen. Be a change agent.  

If a person is hungry, give them food. If a person lacks sufficient clothing, help them with clothing. House the homeless. If you see injustice, protest, speak up, and be the change so that justice can triumph over injustice.    

Again, I must repeat the words of Edmund Burke who said, "the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing!" How true.  

If you cannot fix the problems a person is facing, after you listen to that person, go speak to others in society. They need to hear about what happened or what is happening. Society needs to know. The world needs to know. That's how we show love.

This book should inspire action! 

Yes, for me but not just for me!

For me, spread this story to the world. Let's see what we can do together. Let's fix these problems that I have described. I don't know what the solutions will look like. I don't mean to be rude, but the solutions will not be abstract ideas or matters of faith. 

Just as a hungry person needs food, a person who has experienced injustice needs justice! 

Diane was Lynn’s mother. In my healing, I have come to forgive myself for my mistakes and to love myself. To develop a sense of self-compassion. It was devastating to discover that I was not mentioned in Lynn’s obituary. We will get to my reflections upon that in a moment.

Dear Diane:

What I am about to write is not about me or for me. I need to honor Lynn and her legacy … to talk to the world about her value. I’m not writing this letter for personal reasons. 

I wanted to announce a book that I wrote that honors Lynn and what she offered the world. This letter is a chapter from that book. It’s up to you if you want to read the book. It’s my autobiography but Lynn features prominently in the book. I titled it “Memoirs of a Healer/Clinical Social Worker – Autobiography of Bruce Whealton.” It can be found online at https://brucewhealton.com/autobiography

I spend a large portion of the book trying to make sense of what happened in 2000 to me. At some point during this period, I heard that you thought I needed to have learned more about emotional intelligence. That my impulses were not in check. 

I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there for Lynn when she needed me in 2000 when she got sick. I never reached out like this because I imagined I didn’t deserve any compassion or understanding. I understood what I would feel about anyone who caused Lynn any pain.

So, I get it. Let me repeat it. I know how I would feel toward anyone who caused Lynn any pain! 

In Lynn’s obituary, I read nothing that comes close to conveying just how profoundly amazing she was and how she made the world a better place!

We might think, “well, that’s okay, Lynn didn’t have anything to prove, or she wasn’t looking for recognition in her actions.” 

I know differently – at least when she was with me. She loved that I had been willing to declare my love loud and clear for anyone who would listen. I give examples of his in this book. 

Take, for example, a time when I got up in front of a group of people at the poetry reading at the Coastline Convention Center and read a new poem – a love poem – that everyone knew was about Lynn and dedicated to Lynn. She had been doodling because she thought I was going to read only poems she already heard. She felt so embarrassed when she realized what she missed.

After that, she would read that poem of mine, dedicated to her, about my love for her, whenever it was her turn to share at some poetry reading, and perhaps she didn’t have something to read of her own. 

As I was saying, this letter is part of a chapter in a book that does just that. It’s my autobiography. 

Diane, you are right, I was acting crazy in 2000. I know I was supposed to be there for Lynn. But when it came to matters of the heart, my personal life, my choice of Lynn, I was driven by my passions. 

And it seems like we are dishonoring Lynn by not acknowledging or accepting her judgment as you once did! 

Lynn wanted someone crazy in love with her! Do not EVER doubt that I was not totally and completely in love with Lynn. That is something that can be known to be true above all else!

There are few things in life that I know or believe for certain. My love for Lynn is one of those things that I know with absolute certainty. 

There might be many things that one might say about these things, but no one can say that I stopped loving Lynn ever or that I wasn’t still totally and completely in love with Lynn even during the 2000s!

During that next decade, I was still in love with Lynn. I would break down in tears ten years after we went on a different path.

I have no idea what Lynn was going through. I was afraid that reaching out to her directly would cause her pain by reminding her of the love we once had that had not lasted. I have no idea if that was the right choice.

I used to ask people who I met on Facebook. They were nice and I was only giving them her phone number which was available to the public. They were really moved by the love I had conveyed and my desperation. I heard a few of them called her but we didn’t get anywhere. 

I didn’t know what to do. 

I made a new friend who was a writer named Ryan Miller who was introduced to me by Jean Jones – a mutual friend of Lynn and mine. I would stay with him when I visited Wilmington and I would share stories about my life with Lynn, revisiting places where we had gone.

To this day, I do not have a full understanding of what was going on with me during a period in 2000 – I think it was August. I have tried with the guidance and counseling of others to find those answers. 

It wasn’t like I was always that same person that let down Lynn when she needed me and did such crazy things. To believe that would be to dishonor Lynn and her judgment. Winning, earning, deserving the love of Lynn was not something I took for granted. For all those years, I would think about how lucky I was and how much I needed to continue to deserve Lynn’s love. 

I couldn’t believe when I saw her in mid-1992 that she didn’t already have someone in her life. 

Then when I gave her an engagement ring, I saw tears of joy and there has been a no more joyful moment in my life – that I could make her that happy! We had picked out the ring together and I thought she knew I was coming with the ring that day. I was taken by surprise when I saw the happiness that I brought to her. I’ll never forget that. 

What I am saying is that I could not possibly have been in my right mind back in 2000 when she decided and told me that she wasn’t coming back home. I wasn’t myself.

I had so many draft letters that I consulted with therapists upon that I meant to send to Lynn. 

Earning her love was the single greatest accomplishment in my life. To lose that… to hear that she might not or isn’t coming back home… I’m speechless. 

Lynn saw something was happening to me. She said she wished I had kept in touch with our friends because she couldn’t provide the support I needed. 

There was no closure. Lynn didn’t say “I need you to get help before we can go on together because you are acting crazy.” 

I came to feel worthless and undeserving of her after what happened. I also had no idea what she was feeling or wanting later. I certainly didn’t want to cause her any more pain. The way I was in 2000 at a certain point during that year, was completely different than the way I had been. 

Sometime in 2009, I went to a poetry workshop that Lynn attended as well. I was in the same room with Lynn, she was right next to me. My heart was racing. I was so nervous and confused. I couldn’t form any words. It almost seemed like someone had created this opportunity… but I wasn’t able to realize if that was true or not. 

The poem I read was called “Fugue State.” I suppose I had been lost and confused, in fog, without Lynn. 

Then when it came around to her to comment, she said “I pass.” I had already been shaking and nearly hyperventilating. Within moments I got up and went out into the night walking.

I did not know I would go crazy when Lynn got really sick, and I feared losing her. It doesn’t mean I loved her less than you did. 

There was a moment when I just shut down while you wanted me to pack up things from the house as you were selling it. I wasn’t trying to be difficult nor was I acting out. I have studied the Polyvagal Theory recently and it seems that what happened was that I had reverted to the primitive brain’s method of coping by shutting down. Drawing inward and away from the higher brain functions that are typical of social animals.

Something inside of me died during that time period.

So, I suppose you shouldn’t have been calling my mother when I shut down and you didn’t know what to do.

My mother’s abuse and emotional neglect left me vulnerable in a way that I had not expected. I had been in therapy for so long with so many therapists, trying to be sure I worked on all my issues. If any of them got a hint that there was something more to work on, they would have told me. 

Lynn would have noticed too. Trust her judgment. You did from the day Lynn and I started seeing each other. 

Lynn wasn’t shy about telling me what was not acceptable! About where I might want to improve or what I needed to work on.

Crazy in love is just that. I felt like I was going crazy at the thought that I would not have Lynn!

Lynn wanted that or she would not have stayed with me as long as she did.

I think everyone should know that if Lynn truly doubted that I was in love with her more than anyone or anything else, she would NOT stay with me. With my book, they will know this.

That was real. 

Year after year, I lived as your son-in-law. 

Lynn wanted someone who came and apologized right away when I said something hurtful. Someone who didn’t let us stay angry at each other for long.

I would apologize profusely and demonstrate how sad I was to have upset Lynn. She saw that and knew that. I always felt that I could not take for granted having Lynn and that she could and would leave me if I was disrespectful toward her or if I wasn’t making her happy…

If she doubted that I was in love with her, I believed she would leave me. 

I never found an instruction book with answers to what one should do if anything like this happens or if one finds oneself in the situation in which I found myself beginning at some point in 2000. 

Even now I understand my choice of words might sound odd because I am talking about things happening to me instead of my actions or inaction. I often felt like I couldn’t find self-compassion regarding these matters because I didn’t have a disease that was threatening my life. However, I had been overwhelmed beyond my capacity to cope. If anyone saw that coming, I would have welcomed their counsel and acted upon it. 

Regarding the situation of what happened with Lynn and me.

There was no formal discussion between Lynn and me about going our separate ways. I had been visiting her at her mother's. Then she said she might not be coming back. 

Just as so much that was good about our relationship didn’t need to be said, we knew it before it was said, so had Lynn slipped out of my life. All I knew was that she had to focus on her health and that she couldn’t help me – it was too stressful for her. 

Did that mean she lost her love? I never let myself contemplate that. She had a strong survivalist instinct. I find some slight comfort in knowing that her desire for my happiness and success was part of the reason why what was happening to me hurt her and overwhelmed her.

Instead, I became aimless and without a sense of what to do to get Lynn back. 

For a few weeks in mid-2000, I had been making over $1000 per week. Yes, indeed. I had forgotten to mention that previously in this book. Things were really taking off for me. In June, I had been putting in more than forty hours per week and loving that. I wouldn't want to do that forever, because I wanted to enjoy the life I had with Lynn - before everything happened. There were a couple of weeks where I brought in over $2000.     

I had plans. All that collapsed in August and into the first week to ten days of September of 2000. I am not going to offer an itemized list of how I went from being on track to make six figures per year to nothing. The funds that I had were not all for me, of course.  

I want to try to comment on the nature of what was stated by the clients who filed grievances with the North Carolina Social Worker Certification and Licensure Board (NCSWCLB). I mentioned that I knew that John Freifeld had composed the entire grievance/complaint letter for the clients. I found out from my lawyer that the board was aware that he composed the entire statement that they made.  

Some aspects of this complaint letter were vague and likely a form of projection. He filled their heads with the idea that I had only been interested in meeting with them each week because I found them attractive. It seemed to me based on my experience that he was projecting his own motives toward women onto me.  

I do not know exactly what was going on at the home of Jessica, the first client he referred to me when he was still living in Virginia.  

I had heard months earlier that she was having "flashbacks" and "panic attacks" and that was why she and her husband needed John to be living there for free. Yes, that was stated at some point. They thought he was helping her. My efforts to point out how they were getting worse and not better with Freifeld's help were not effective enough.  

These individuals who met in one of the groups that I had I believed were spending time over at Jessica’s home. I heard that he had a few rooms set up for helping them process or deal with their memories/flashbacks of past trauma. Again, they were well aware, as I explained earlier, that he was not trained to know how to set up anything of this nature.  

I had discovered the "conspiracy theories" on the internet following some interactions with two of my clients. I had just done some searches online with various keywords and that led down a rabbit hole.  

I remember how I had as an activity for therapy groups that were like scrapbooking. It seemed like an icebreaker or a way to facilitate discussion. I had used this with various clients over time. I'm only mentioning this because I remember a book that I stumbled upon online called "Paperclip Dolls." That made me think of that workshop on dissociative identity disorder (DID) that I organized in early 1999 with Louise Coggins, MSW, LCSW.  

Louise had mentioned ritual abuse in more than one context, including at that workshop. And she talked about using scrapbooking with magazines as a creative form of therapy. 

I thought I was hearing facts and I did not put "ritual abuse" into a context with "satanic ritual abuse" which was part of the conspiracy theories that were being spread across the internet during this period. My discovery of these "conspiracy theories" was only after I had noticed a bizarre theme coming up in therapy with Jessica and one other client.  

Anyway, the book "Paperclip Dolls" was another book that was in that same vein of a person discovering and reconstructing memories of "satanic ritual abuse" and mind control programming. By "programming" I mean something like behavioral psychology techniques where some cue or trigger could elicit a deliberate programmed response. Think of how Pavlov's dogs would salivate in response to a buzzer or a light because it had been paired up with dispensing food for the dogs.  

Somehow the author of "Paperclip Dolls" had discovered that she had been abused as a child and she had discovered the memories of this from various images in magazines that caught her attention. These discoveries and the sense that they caught her attention seemed to confirm that her new memories must be true. She came to believe that she must have been part of a government program that involved mind control.

This is what the author of Paperclip Dolls had discovered. I hinted earlier in this book that I had been flipping through that book on a very memorable moment and sexually intimate experience that I had with Lynn back in April of 2000. At the time, I had no idea that I was going to be accused of planting false memories of "satanic ritual abuse."  

I wish I could offer more details about how any of my clients had begun to believe that things like this happened to them or why they believed it happened to anyone for that matter. Again, I didn't know what was happening at the home of Jessica, where John Freifeld was living and seeking to help a few of my clients.  

I had mentioned that my colleagues - members of the local Society of Clinical Social Workers - suggested that I tell these clients that I could not help them if they were also receiving treatment from Freifeld. For one thing, everything had been happening so fast that I had not had time to implement this policy. I also don't know how he or the clients with whom I spoke about this felt.  

Family Connections

I mentioned that I had turned to my family for support when Lynn became ill. Any reasonable person would understand how traumatic or tragic all this would be and why I would need support.  

Up until last year, I have maintained a relationship with my parents and my sister. I mentioned earlier that I had not spoken to my brother since shortly after I made a call to child protective services. I had seen him lose his temper and push his daughter Emily up against a wall like she was a rag doll and she had told me when I asked her about some marks, that “your brother did that.”

As I was saying, I had maintained a relationship with my siblings and my parents until recently.

Then it hit me. It seemed so insane that they were not there at all during this period. They had not visited Lynn in the hospital to see how she was doing. Heck, they never even sent a card to me or her. They seemed indifferent to my suffering.  

My sister, Carrie Whealton, has never married or been in love. However, it's not reasonable or rational to suggest that she would not understand what it would be like to lose the love of one's life. She has parents and grandparents.  

I'm not saying that I am JUST angry that this happened. What I mean, is that there has never been any explanation offered for how or why they could have acted that way. It made me feel like I did not matter at all in their eyes. My success did not matter. My happiness didn't matter.  

I cannot spend my time speculating on how or why they made those decisions. I know that I deserve better. 

I suppose I could have been upset at Diane for not caring at all that I had nowhere to do, no income now and I was devastated beyond being able to cope with life at all. But my sense of survivor’s guilt kicked in. So, all I felt was shame and worthlessness. 

We couldn’t get married for health and insurance reasons, so it had seemed too easy to deconstruct our life. In retrospect, Diane knew we were living as husband and wife. So, I was like a son-in-law. 

I had always been welcomed for holidays with Lynn. More than that, Diane bought the home for us. Sure, it was an investment but her decision to sell it when Lynn decided that she didn’t think she would be coming back demonstrated that it was for us and that she knew that I was the one that had made Lynn so happy.

She must have remembered that.

I had nowhere to go now. Lynn took the cats. For a while, I asked to take the cats, but I was feeling sufficiently guilty, and I was on the run soon… without anything that I had known for so long.

I would end up leaving my clients stranded as well without an explanation. 

Dear reader, if you have any unanswered questions now, please understand one thing that is key. I was so out of it, so in shock, so unable to process everything, so overwhelmed… I couldn’t figure out anything myself!

This might be a good time to make a transition to another section of my book. Where I want and what I did as a bounced around after this, as a ball dropped down some steps, will be described in the next section.

Here’s a poem that I wrote as I reflected upon the horrors of this period, including the inability to handle the trauma of my clients as I had been able to do in the past.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

I’d like to think
I’m just like
anyone else -
that we all have limits…
There’s only so much
we can take…
So much -
Pain… Fear… Loss… Trauma.
There’s only so much
any of us can experience 
and remain sane
and true to
our ideals, our values,
who we are and
the person we have become.
When the pain,
the fear, the terror,
the trauma
exceeds this limit,
We snap
and for a while
we drift away…
away to someplace
in our mind,
someplace utterly unknown,
unexpected,
outside reality…
maybe we come back
and then maybe we don’t…
It depends on what
might call us back.

You will learn about what was happening… not why. You won’t read about someone with a plan or hopes. First, I have a short chapter that is a letter to someone else who loved Lynn.

As I mentioned, Lynn and I couldn’t have a wedding because our combined income might make her ineligible for the insurance that would cover her treatment.

Okay, so this speaks to just how madly in love with Lynn I was. Anything happening to her was terrifying. I had asked her to marry me, given her a ring, and committed myself to her forever. But without a wedding or a “legal” marriage. 

We even tried going to the Catholic church to get married but without a marriage certificate and they would not allow that. The fact that we didn’t have a wedding didn’t change anything.

If you are thinking that I imagined getting married to someone else someday, the answer is NO! I had found the one for me! Lynn. So, my commitment to Lynn was forever.  

Let this all sink in for a moment. We were in a rush with time hoping that they find a cure for Cystic Fibrosis - a genetic illness - so that she would live past her fifties. That's what I needed!  

Treatment can cost several thousand dollars per year during good years. Even her mother could not afford that. 

What do I mean by a “bad year?” And what was it like in general, even during good years?

Occasionally, she would use an inhaler but that didn’t seem to happen very frequently. 

I drove her or we drove together to her clinic appointments in Chapel Hill. From Wilmington, that was a drive of over two hours. It happened for the most part only once a year. 

They would check her oxygen saturation… take X-rays to see the scarring and the buildup of mucus in her chest. 

Lynn was good about letting me sit in on every meeting, such as when she was taken to a room to be examined by first a nurse and then a doctor. 

Most of the time we were very lucky because she was so very healthy for someone with this very serious and debilitating disease. 

I might have turned away or left a room when they wanted to collect a mucus sample. Lynn understood that I had a weak stomach. 

Anyway, so much of this was becoming routine. Most of the time. 

I asked so many questions all the time. “What is that dark spot in her chest area that you described in the X-Ray? Is that mucus or scarring?”

The doctor would answer, “well, here is some excess mucus that needs to be cleared, and here is some scarring?”

“Wait how do we clear that mucus?” I asked.

“Have you learned how to do the tapping?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, we learned about that from the physical therapist.” I answered, adding a question “but it’s still worrisome?”

Then I asked, “What about that device that she is supposed to wear, is that better?” 

“Not necessarily,” the doctor answered. 

Then Lynn said, “it doesn’t clear it out for me, I can tell it’s still there.” Then she turned to me and said, “I told you about the problems and asked for your help the other day.”

I felt so guilty. “Oh, my God, Lynn, I am so sorry.” Adding, “it’s scary for me. I know you need me and I’m trying. I’m scared when you are not well. That makes me feel guilty because I should be there for you… but I get sad and scared about the meaning of these problems.”

I paused and added with tears running down my face, “I want a ‘normal life’ … and if anything happens to you… I just love you so much, you make me feel good and happy. I can’t imagine not having you with me.”

“I know sweetie, I have had more time to deal with this,” she said.

“Okay, so I still have a lot of questions,” I said. 

“Okay, ask away,” answered Lynn with a smile that said she knew I really cared.

Then turning to the doctor, I said, “so, how often and for how long should I do the tapping to clear up the mucus as it builds up?”

“Well, about 15 to 30 minutes at a time in the evening would be good,” answered the doctor. 

“And the scarring, that looks big, what…” I could barely get my words out I was so full of anxiety and sadness… trying hard to be strong for Lynn. 

It is SO MUCH easier to do this with clients or patients at a psych hospital. 

Dear reader, I hope that is somewhat intuitive but maybe I shouldn’t assume. I wasn’t in love with my clients or the patients I served. We weren’t sharing our lives together. They were not in love with me either. At least I hope not – that’s another issue for later.

Also, the big secret that I have been avoiding is that Cystic Fibrosis is a deadly disease! I could lose Lynn forever!

My blood runs cold when I think of this as it did at the time. It’s interesting how similar sensations can feel so different. When we were at the clinic discussing these matters, I could feel chills running through me… not the kind that I felt at the touch of Lynn’s hand or her lips on mine.

I was, for the most part, able to push these issues out of my mind and not think about the reality of it. But on these visits, we had to look at this darkness in our life. Scarring and mucus appeared as dark patches on the X-Ray of her lungs.

In answer to the question I posed about the scarring, the doctor said, “her lungs still have a capacity to breathe and get enough oxygen to function in many normal activities.”

During the visits, I would learn about how the scarring makes the lungs less elastic and that makes it harder for them to expand and get enough air to engage in certain activities that we take for granted… running, hiking, or walking long distances. And scars don’t heal.

So, even if they had a cure that doesn’t mean that everything would be fine.

When her health got worse…

There was a time in late 1996 when Lynn had to go into the hospital. Her lung functioning had gotten poorer or weaker and they wanted to put her on IV antibiotics in the hospital. 

The doctor had explained that they wanted to go after the infections in her lungs. They had to try some of the latest antibiotics that were thought to be more effective in people with Cystic Fibrosis (CF). They were always learning new things about the disease and people were living longer. 

It was scary for both of us. Waiting there in the lobby of the hospital I tried to stay positive and tell myself that things would be okay. 

Then she was brought to an inpatient unit that was used for treating individuals with CF. 

When Lynn asked me to get her something from downstairs – a drink and a candy bar – I was somewhat glad to have that opportunity. I was struggling to stay still. That’s how anxious I was. I had a strong urge to walk. I couldn’t sit still hardly. I was also sick to my stomach. That’s what happens when I am anxious or scared. I felt queasy or nauseous. 

I held her hand as they inserted the IV. I asked the nurse “what is that?” referring to the fluid that was being introduced into her IV. 

“This is just saline solution,” she answered… adding, “the doctor will give us an order to tell us which medications to give her.” 

I was sitting on the bed looking at Lynn. No words were spoken for a few moments.

“Do you want a book, or to play cards?” I asked, “or how can we pass the time?”

Lynn asked for a book by Anne McCaffery, one of her newest books that she had not read.

“I want to stay with you,” I said. 

“I understand,” she answered. “I am glad you are with me.”

“Me too.”

I added, “I can just be reading something too with you.”

“Okay, that sounds good.” 

“You can go meet my friend Carolyn,” she said. This was a friend who also had CF and she lived in Chapel Hill.

“Yes, we will see her when you get out too,” I said. “Before we go home.

Visiting hours don’t usually allow people to stay all night. That night I was in bed next to Lynn, on her left. She was asleep with my arm resting on her stomach or her chest. I just wanted to feel her breathing. We made sure the IV was out of the way.

I heard the door open, and I looked up to see a nurse checking in. She didn’t say anything. 

This finally ended and she came home. Our life went back to normal.

There was one other job that was very rewarding and fun. I worked the weekend shift at Sherwood Village, an Independent Supportive Living Apartment Complex. There were roughly 30 apartments that housed 30 individuals.  

I was on-call with a beeper for a 48-hour shift from Friday at 6 PM until Sunday at 6 PM. It was a supportive independent living facility in the sense that everyone lived independently but someone was on staff 24 hours per day 7 days per week. This was a place for persons with severe and persistent mental illness. It was called Sherwood Village.

By now I was a graduate student with so many other responsibilities and things going on in my life – a life with Lynn.

I was responsible for transporting the residents to the movies or other similar events. They had a van for me to transport the tenants. I didn't go with them to the movies most times because tenants that chose not to go on an outing might need my services.  

I was allowed to go home with the pager that any of the residents could call if they needed me.  

It was a great job, and I was well-liked by everyone. I stayed on with this position until I got my master’s degree and could move up into a more professional level position.  

It was fun to get to know all the residents. They said they liked me better than the staff member who worked from Sunday at 6 PM through Friday at 6 PM. So, that felt good to know.  

The only activity that I had to do as someone who is "in charge" was to do some inspections of the apartment - mainly that was inspecting the A/C filters and other things like that. Obviously, there were some things that are important to promote a person's overall health that I had to oversee.  

They knew I had a job to do for the landlord and the managers that maintain the apartments. I obviously had to make sure people were okay, but it wasn't like in a hospital unit where someone might come by every few hours. Most tenants were relatively high functioning, so they weren't going to wander away and disappear.  

They had their own cars in some cases and there was no curfew or anything like that.  

It was extremely rewarding because I NEVER had an issue with any of the tenants not liking me.

This would be a common theme in my career overall where the greatest challenge was with paperwork/charting, bureaucracies, staff expectations, and in my role as a member of the staff. 

During this entire decade and into 2000, I NEVER had negative feedback or opinions expressed by anyone I served or helped – with clients, patients, or tenants everything went so smoothly. 

The job was awesome overall. I mean I was getting to know these people and feel like I was part of a family. I considered them part of my family in a way. I mean I liked everyone there. One or two residents were distant and didn't talk much but most everyone was great to know.  

I didn’t think the staff for whom I was working had too many rules. I was on my own for most of the entire weekend and for most weekends. The only people contacting me were tenants/residents.  

I could visit them inside their apartments. Obviously, that could be problematic with female tenants, but it never became an issue. If there was more than one person in the apartment, I didn't feel too concerned about spending some time in any of the tenant's apartments. Sometimes there were emergencies, and that required spending extended time with a particular tenant who was in a crisis situation.  

These crises rarely happened. I do remember one woman having a seizure and I was on the phone with EMS. I had to return to Sherwood Village because I had gone home with the pager when I got the message to call the tenant's phone number.  

Residents of Sherwood Village had disorders such as schizophrenia, Major Depression, Bipolar Disorders, and so on. These disorders were characterized as severe and persistent mental illnesses. That is likely a designation that is necessary to obtain funding.  

I obviously was made aware of the diagnoses of each resident. I also had to know what medications they were taking, physical problems, and other important information. This was all on file in the office. I was given a couch in the dayroom or I could sleep on the couch in the office if I needed more privacy at night.  

I ran the tenant meetings which were held about once a month. Most of the tenants came for the meeting that was held in the dayroom which was a place where people could visit during most hours such as 9 AM to 9 PM. I could certainly spend additional time with tenants in that room if they needed to talk to someone.

Hopefully, you can imagine why this job was awesome for me. And why they all felt like my family.  

It also is important to note how comfortable I felt running the tenant/resident meetings. Unlike reading my poetry to a group, this was more like directing a group event.

Yes, I felt so comfortable interacting with everyone as the person that everyone turned to for help whatever their problems were. I was starting my graduate studies during this time period, so I had been learning other skills in college (graduate school) to help me in counseling individuals in need and how to run group sessions.  

I wasn't actually doing therapy yet but some of what we do as therapists is to listen to others with empathy. To help people feel safe. To be someone who others turn to for help and support.  

We also had a Christmas party on the weekend when I was there. It was so nice. I felt needed and important.  

It felt so right. I mean I was doing a great job, and I could tell that I was. I could tell that I was someone that people felt very comfortable talking to. 

I also know that I was more liked than the young woman who worked there during the week.  

I also have no doubt that both the men and the women felt more comfortable talking to me about anything than they did talking to Donita, who worked during the weekdays. I knew that people there were glad to see me arrive on Friday - they told me.  

What people most want, and I can speak from experience is someone who truly listens and demonstrates empathy. Notice that I said, "demonstrates empathy."  You cannot just feel comfortable believing you have empathy for another person and their situation. People will let you know how they feel when you are working with them or they will be distant, closed off, or reserved as they had been with Donita.

It seems like common sense that people won't be coming to you or repeatedly seeking your help and support if you are not demonstrating empathy. People here were coming to me to discuss everything that concerned them. 

I felt a powerful connection.

Donita seemed to be held out as a role model for me by my supervisor at least until he started talking to the tenants about me.  

The tenants on the other hand did complain to me about Donita’s "attitude." She wasn't approachable, I was told. It wasn't anything that was serious enough for them to complain, for the most part.   

It's important to note that some people in a situation like this do not feel empowered to complain. Having a chronic and persistent mental illness carries with it some stigma and it doesn't lend itself to creating feelings of self-esteem and self-confidence. Low self-esteem can go hand-in-hand with various psychiatric illnesses.  

That being said, I know I made a difference and the tenants at Sherwood Village didn't want me to leave when I had to move on with my career and take on more professional opportunities. That was happening as I completed my graduate training.          

Unfortunately, due to confidentiality, I could not ask them for letters of recommendation for any job outside the mental health center/clinic. I did have complete confidence that each of the tenants, when and if asked about my performance had nothing but good things to say.  

In the next chapter, I will begin to discuss the next stages in my education. More specifically, I am going to discuss my graduate studies at the University of South Carolina in the Department of Social Work. 

In the last chapter, I was discussing the primary accomplishment of my life - building a family with Lynn. As husband and wife, we were a family.  

Prior to that, during college, I had spent five years trying to overcome my shyness which manifested as social anxiety and a lack of social and communication skills. To even meet Lynn and to express my interest in her required skills that I did not have previously.  

As I described in earlier chapters of this book, engineering wasn’t even close to being a good choice. In high school, though, they didn't give us any psychological tests, aptitude tests, nor did a guidance counselor sit down with us and help us figure out what career might be a good match for us.

Because of the benefits that psychology offered me in making radical changes for the better in my life, I wanted to bring those same benefits to others who might be struggling in life. If it could transform a guy who was paralyzed with or by shyness into a person who would choose social work, then imagine the possibilities.  

Having realized just how rewarding it had been to work with the social work team at Georgia Regional Hospital, a psychiatric hospital, I was looking for a similar opportunity when I moved to Wilmington in 1992. I had arrived for a 6-month contract at Corning as a technical writer as I had indicated previously.

Wilmington had just the right opportunity at "The Oaks" which was part of "New Hanover Regional Medical Center."  The Oaks was a psychiatric hospital. It was a locked unit because many people are there under involuntary commitment orders.  

When I approached “The Oaks” I was introduced to Chris Hauge, DSW, LCSW. DSW is for Doctor of Social Work and LCSW is for Licensed Clinical Social Worker. Most people with an LCSW have a master’s in social work (MSW) as that is typically considered a “terminal degree” – the furthest one needs to go in in one’s education to work as a psychiatric social worker. Usually, a person will get a DSW so they can teach at the university level.

Anyway, I volunteered to work a few hours every week. I also explained to Chris my long-term goals and my journey up to this point. Chris would end up being a mentor of mine. He supervised me during my second internship about 3 years later. He also helped me get started in private practice even later in my career. In other words, he knew me quite well and he was very instrumental in my success.

His style was also very refreshing.  Chris encouraged the use of self-disclosure by the staff at the Oaks when they were interacting with patients and he modeled that. This is not very common in the field. Many mental health professionals are very guarded about disclosing personal details, their own experiences. There is a risk that some clients or patients will use some personal information to make us feel bad or to get under our skin.

As another example of what I found unique about Chris was that in his groups he encouraged the staff to be very genuine and to share their own honest feelings. Imagine a client or patient is feeling very down about themselves and feeling worthless. Now imagine that with what little time you’ve spent with a person it occurs to you that you can think of at least one positive thing that you like about the person as a fellow human being. To even get to this point might seem impossible to some mental health professionals.

I actually had such an experience not long ago in 2020. I was talking to a psychiatric nurse at the University of North Carolina at one of their clinics. It was awkward for her as she stated that it would not be proper for her to tell me if she felt there was anything positive that she recognized about me or in me. The question and the interaction were rather uncomfortable for both of us. But really, does it need to be? If such a question was posed to me, I’d have offered some positive feedback before I put that much thought into the matter.

To think that you can’t offer any positive feedback to a client is strange to me.

As a social work volunteer at The Oaks, I was assigned to complete an intake assessment, not unlike the ones I had done at Georgia Regional Hospital.

There are some interesting things that I wanted to add about the intake assessment. This was the case when I was a volunteer at Georgia Regional Hospital as well. Chris encouraged me to make a diagnosis of the patients and to do so without looking at what the psychiatrist had listed as a diagnosis. I’ll explain what it means to make a diagnosis later in this book. 

The point is that the information that you gather is used to make a diagnosis. Patients were not given a battery of psychological tests (or any psychological test for that matter) in most cases. I could see how I was gathering more extensive information than what the psychiatrist had available previously. 

I got the sense that the clinical social workers like Chris were providing crucial information that would inform the treatment plan while they are in the hospital – outpatient settings are like that as well.

Later, while I was working at a public mental health center after getting my degree, it seemed, in that particular setting, that the doctors were less receptive to considering the additional information that I offered or to read or listen to my explanation for why my diagnosis might be different. I was never chastised for offering my own diagnosis into the chart, but they seemed less receptive than the psychiatrists here (I am using doctor and psychiatrist interchangeably). 

I was not even an intern yet and had not started my formal training but the information I was gathering seemed valuable to the entire staff. 

Anyway, I would come in and meet Chris. We would sit down, and he had a list of new patients. He would say that we have to finish a certain number of intake assessments that day – there was a requirement to complete them within a certain period of time after admission. So, Chris would say, “I will do the assessment on these people, and could you meet with these others.”

I was given a key to an office somewhere that I could use to meet with and gather information from a patient. 

It’s important to note that this was not “busy work.” These intake assessments had to be completed in a certain period of time, as I just said. I felt like I was doing something important.

I had an opportunity to sit in on various group sessions as well. I told Chris that I wanted to do my second internship at The Oaks, and he agreed to that plan.

I learned even more under the supervision of Chris than I had as a volunteer in a similar situation previously.

I continued to grow in my social and communication skills. 

I felt the contentment that goes along with continuing knowledge that I was on the right path in life.

I had been intrigued by the ways that mental illness took a toll on the lives of others. If I could apply those same skills to help others, that would be something. To heal others afflicted with debilitating disorders or to help them cope and find joy in life would be the most appropriate career direction for me. The relationships I was forming even before I graduated from Georgia Tech were so powerful and meaningful to me! 

Everyone has different preferences and things that motivate them. I had found what mattered to me and what kind of activities I wanted to perform on the job. You might say that these were activities that I NEEDED to do if life was going to be meaningful.  

This was about helping others and working with others. That’s what mattered to me.  

I mention all this to make it clear that having made one mistake regarding my education and career direction, I didn’t want to make another.

In retrospect, as I write these words decades later, I know that I had made the right decisions back then. I had been on the right path and doing everything right.

The worldwide web was still fairly new in the 90s. Lynn and I were both interested in poetry, and I had the idea of publishing a poetry magazine on the web. This was in 1995.

I  had a goal of becoming a psychiatric social worker and I was learning a great deal about psychiatric issues at this time. I will describe this in greater detail later.

Anyway, we were thinking of a title and I thought of a term that I heard in the psychiatric field – word salad. The definition from dictionary.com is as follows: incoherent speech consisting of both real and imaginary words, lacking comprehensive meaning, and occurring in advanced schizophrenic states.

I had remarked that at one time, years ago, I had struggled to make sense of poetry… like when I was growing up. I once had the impression that poetry was hard to understand. Maybe I just had bad teachers.

This seemed like a good name that we both liked. So, we called the magazine “Word Salad” or “Word Salad Poetry Magazine.” I got a domain name online and started creating a static website. This was prior to WordPress and so I had to work with Microsoft Word or perhaps WordPerfect (yeah, back then both programs were equally popular). 

I would then create a list of pages for each poem with links on the main page which would serve as a table of contents. 

Lynn let me do this part. 

I also did what was required to try to get submissions. Back then, newsgroups were very popular, and your internet service provider included a list of newsgroups that you could subscribe to. It is similar to a forum today, but they were more open and not controlled by any particular owner… meaning there weren’t strict rules about what you could post. 

Consider something like this today. We might join groups on Facebook, but someone is an owner and creator of the group or there are a small group of administrators for the group. Unsolicited requests for submissions posted to a group might get you kicked off for sending spam. 

Newsgroups were not like that and you could find appropriate groups where you could find creative people who are writers and poets. That’s what I did.

Poetry submissions started coming into our email account for the magazine. 

Keep in mind that at the time this idea of an online magazine was very new as well. That is no longer the case.

We decided to publish four times every year. Around the time when we were getting ready to publish an edition, I first asked Lynn to sit down in front of the computer and see what she thought of some of the poems we were getting – which ones did we want to publish?

She said she wanted me to print out all the poems that I got. I did that and she started creating piles for rejects, those we might want to publish and those she or we liked. She might show me ones she liked right away along with the ones that were in the “maybe” stack or I would look later… sometimes I would start off indicating which ones I liked. 

This was really taking off and it was amazing. 

At one point, we got an interview with Ben Steelman who is a reporter with the Wilmington Star-News. He sat down together with him outside near his office in town. It was memorable. 

We got some submissions from our friends as well. 

A similar process occurred when Lynn would edit/proofread my papers for graduate school. She would ask me to print out the paper and she would go about marking up typos or other stupid mistakes I would make in my writing. It’s strange how easy it is to make all these errors even if I was a much better writer than might be indicated by some early drafts of my papers.

In the next chapter, we will go back in time. I will pick up the story of my career journey. That journey might have started in the 80s when I decided I was going to go into social work, but it took off in 92. That just happens to be the same time when I met Lynn.

It was the best of times, a period of great success and accomplishments. 

Memoirs of a Healer/Clinical Social Worker – Autobiography of Bruce Whealton Copyright © 2021 by Bruce Whealton.

Published by Bruce Whealton.

Some rights reserved. No part of this book may be altered or modified in any way.

Contact me, the author for autographed copies at brucewhealton@outlook.com 
 

This book is my autobiography but it is as much about me as about Lynn. Lynn and I lived as husband and wife for many years. None of what I accomplished in life would have been possible without the love and support of Lynn. 

Dedication

In Loving Memory of Lynn Denise Krupey

1967-2015

The photo above was taken shortly before her death. Lynn and I lived as husband and wife for a number of years. Losing Lynn was the same as losing a part of my identity - my "self." I felt lost, disoriented, in a trance, wandering as if in a fugue state ... forever looking for my home.  

I love to hear from readers and get an idea as to how you were touched or moved by the story. I always love to hear about what you like most about what was presented in the book.
 

The content of this book will illustrate the many and various needs that I have for funds. Some of those needs for funding are related to marketing and promoting the book. Additionally, I want to get print copies of the book in the hands of others. 

Injustice

I am leading the reader toward an account of injustice as well. I want you to get to know me first so that you will care about me and what happened to me. 

I have dedicated my life to living according to the highest morals, doing no harm but instead helping others who are suffering or struggling...

What do you feel when you think of a very good person being harmed in a violent and vicious way? What do you want to do?

The triumph of good is possible through the actions of good people. This book is my effort to connect with you, dear reader, and build a relationship with you.  

When I discuss the injustice that occurred and the impact it had on my psychological well-being you will get a feel for why I am trying to get copies of the book in the hands of those who can address certain problems that have existed for some time... societal problems. 

Injustice has utterly destroyed my life over the past two decades. When you add up the lost wages alone it is between $1 Million and $2 Million. I am looking for potential avenues to gain restorative justice through the court systems. 

I am pursuing a Motion for Appropriate Relief which would re-open the case and create a just outcome for the victimization that I experienced at the hands of Ana. I will let you discover that as it transpired, dear reader.